"David, did you miss me?" A blonde woman in a silk chemise draped herself over me.
My mind was foggy as I held her slender waist. "Who...who are you?" I mumbled.
She pulled aside her lace strap, revealing a crimson birthmark on her shoulder blade. "Remember me now?"
At that moment, violent pounding shook the door.
I jerked upright. "Who's there?"
"Skyjack! Open up or I'll shoot!" a gruff voice shouted.
Annoyed at the interruption, I scoffed, "Go ahead, tough guy."
Three gunshots exploded through the door—
—and I woke gasping in my business class seat, realizing the nightmare was real. A bald man in a leather jacket waved a Glock at the cockpit, screaming obscenities.
Another shot rang out. The 747 suddenly nosedived like a falling elevator.
When I came to, the plane was silent except for creaking metal. Moonlight revealed our wrecked Boeing 787 perched at a 45-degree angle against redwood trees, its tail section completely sheared off.
"Anyone alive?" My voice echoed through the blood-scented cabin. No response.
Using my iPhone flashlight, I discovered most passengers were dead in a tangled heap near the ruptured emergency exit. Then—a weak moan.
There, half-buried under bodies, was Emma Stone—Oscar-winning actress and my longtime celebrity crush—her designer blouse soaked with blood.
"Emma! Stay with me!" I gave rescue breaths, her lips soft despite the metallic blood taste. When she didn't respond, I unbuttoned her blouse to begin compressions.
My hands trembled—not from fear, but from the surreal intimacy. Focus, David. Thirty compressions. Two breaths. Repeat.
She gasped awake, then slapped me hard. "Get off!" Scrambling up, she noticed her exposed lace bra and screamed.
"I saved your life," I said, rubbing my cheek. "Name's David Carter."
Emma's expression shifted from terror to shame. "Th-thank you. Are there others...?"
In first class, we found a dazed brunette with vacant blue eyes. "What's your name?" Emma asked.
The girl stared blankly. "Seven," she whispered.
"Concussion-induced amnesia," I said. "My father's a trauma surgeon at Johns Hopkins."
As I checked for fractures, Emma grabbed my wrist. "Easy there, Casanova."
"She needs medical attention before we move her," I insisted. Finding no breaks, I helped her stand. "Stay between us when we slide down."
The escape path was gruesome—aisles slick with blood, rows of lifeless passengers. Near the broken wing, moonlight revealed a chilling sight: the bald hijacker sprawled in the sand, his leather jacket glistening with fuel and blood.
The amnesiac girl suddenly knelt beside him, performing CPR.
"Stop!" Emma yanked her back. "He caused this!"
The girl stubbornly resumed compressions.
Emma shoved her harder. "Are you insane? He'll murder us all!"
Just then, the hijacker's eyes snapped open—cold and calculating. He'd heard every word.
A new terror took root as his fingers twitched toward a fallen flight attendant's utility knife...